On Howling

No, my discographically sharp, shiny-domed ex-neighbour – not a dissertation on the 1984 Ramones track that clearly should have been a top 10 hit … mind you any song with sha-la-la-la-la in the chorus should be a pop sensation. Nor is this a reflection on the benchmark werewolf flick from the early 80’s. (By the way Baldilocks, please trim the hedges or I’ll let your new neighbours give them the Crusty trim that you may well recall.)

This is in fact a discourse on the sounds of The Island.

It must now be winter on The Island. It has only been 29 – 30 degrees the past 3 days. (That’s about 84 degrees Jeb.) The effects of this cold snap are dramatic. Masks are back on in the work place. Natives mistakenly expecting sweltering, 33-degree heat, are forgetting their jumpers (those are “sweaters” for you, Daisy Mae) – and they are all coming down with terrible colds.

Now, I must digress for some readers. A literary citation is required, so I refer to the O.S. Dictionary: Hock a Loogie (v): “to cough up a phlegm wad. Loogie is pronounced with a hard G.”

And back to our story … so, despite their penchant for spotless parks, cleanly streets and tidy tubes (it’s a subway, Billy Bob), it would appear that it is perfectly acceptable to make the most horrific noises in public places. In fact I think it may well be encouraged to share with those around you the repeated, staccato, guttural attempts to extract a goober from the depths of the nasal passages.

Mind you, the most fun part of hocking a loogie is never shared. Apparently spitting is frowned upon here on The Island. In fact, it may well be illegal.

Speaking of things that should be illegal ... I can confirm that the shared nasal and throat harmonies are not the most offensive sounds that I have so far experienced.

There is a hawker centre affectionately known at my work as the “far away” food place. It is bloody hard to describe how to get there. But once you arrive at this bustling kingdom full of steaming hot, spicy chilli dishes, you encounter quite possible the best set of lungs on the planet. (No Cletus, I am not referring to her twinkies.)

I nearly had a heart attack upon my first visit when I returned to the table with my mystery fish fried rice dish, and what I mistook for the 400 year old cleaner came up and asked in broken English (well gestures) what I wanted to drink. “An iced lemon tea, please.” She stands up (not really much of a height improvement from when she was leaning over) and at the top of the most extraordinary voice screams out my iced tea order in screeching Mandarin to some poor husband – who I gather was 14 kilometres down the road. Although I am now deaf in my left ear, it was the best $1 that I have spent so far.

On Huddled Masses

Panic not those ye that are worried that I’m about to recite the full poem from the plaque on the green copper lady in New York harbor. Those that know me are aware that I am more likely to sing the praises of the humble masses featured at People of Walmart. And full marks to Diz for pointing me to the website where my old high school has posted pictures of the reunion.

No unlike Liberty Island (or Walmart) this island has a predisposition for sudden rainfall. So there I was with kids in the back seat, steering the Syphilis to Upper Seletar Reservoir (more commonly known as the location of the Singapore Zoo), when a light shower reduced the stifling 33 degree temperature (about 90 degrees for those of you up north in my old trailer park), to a pleasant 30 degrees (around 85 degrees for you, Jeb and Cletus … well let me make it a bit easier for you boys – about as hot as the hinges of Hell).

Now those that have read some of the early work will know in fact that there is no such thing as a rain shower on The Island.

Within 30 seconds it felt like I was the captain of the Andrea Gail navigating the tempestuous seas of the Perfect Storm.

Ruing the loss of the Crustymobile for the 1,432nd time, I began to wonder whether the low slung Syphilis was able to keep forward momentum in the river, which a moment ago was the PI Expressway. The reaction from the tatertots in the backseat was slightly different – wild exuberant Oooooohs! and Aaaaahhhhs! as the buses pass us and giant waves of water surge over the mighty 1.5 litre Nissan powerhouse.

The fact that buses are passing us may give you a sense for the ripping pace at which we are driving … the correct verb may be “floating”.

So feeling a bit sad and sorry for myself all round, I am suddenly put in my place as we head under a flyover (“overpass” for you Jeb). Under the flyover there must be 150 motorbike riders and another 100 scooter riders. This impromptu assembly of the Singapore chapter of the Hells Angels is all off the bikes, huddled together, trying to keep dry. (Or maybe wondering how long a cubit is, and which animals to take on board.)

And then the heart string (yes, Diz - I do have one) was really yanked when we approach a pedestrian walkway that crosses over and above the expressway. Underneath the thin, two meter wide scaffolding, standing tightly shoulder to shoulder, next to their scooter, is a feller and his lady friend that must been riding on the back … absolutely, thoroughly soaked. I think the Irish hope for “walls for winds”, “tea beside the fire”, “laughter to cheer you” … but I think those two missed out on the “roof for the rain” part of that blessing.